The Crown of Destiny (The Yorkist Saga)

by Diana Rubino

  "It matters not how we met today. We did. Can you not at least be thankful for that?"

  "There is nothing to be thankful for, Matthew! I did not want to see you, and I am sorry I came so dangerously close to your grounds. Now I must go! I must return to my husband!" She tried to break free of his grasp, but his fingers were like vices clamped to her shoulders.

  "Amethyst..."

  "Matthew, I am a married woman now—"

  "This meeting was planned. I know it. You came this way deliberately."

  "I did not!"

  Without another word, he brought her to him and his lips closed on hers, crushing them. Her hands shot up and she laced her fingers behind his head, gathering his locks of hair, running her hands down the back of his neck, crushing her breasts to his chest.

  He arched his back and she could feel his growing desire, hard and demanding. She raised her hips to meet him. He pulled her gently to the ground and lay upon the sweet grass dotted with clover. Their arms wound around each other, their bodies joined with a desperate urge. He moaned with longing and she yielded to his passion with every beat of her heart.

  "Come back to Kenilworth with me, just for a short while. I need you," he murmured between light kisses on her neck, her throat, and her sensitive earlobes.

  "I cannot do that! Matthew, please..." She tore herself away and caught her breath, pushing his hard demanding body away with her weakened will. "Please, let me go. This is wrong!"

  "It was wrong for you to marry a man you do not love, when you love me!"

  "Nay, I do not love you!"

  Suddenly all was quiet, the breeze had stopped rustling the leaves, the birds had stopped their melodic twittering, and his panting ceased.

  "You cannot mean that," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

  "You are not the right man for me. You are too placid and genteel. I need someone impetuous and tempestuous like King Henry!" she improvised.

  "You cannot tell me you still love him! You admitted to me that you no longer loved him that way! He married you off to a man you do not even know!"

  "I...I am confused. I do not know how I feel. You are just making it worse. Do not make me betray my husband. They can come upon us any time now. Just get back on your horse and leave me alone."

  She avoided his face, for she did not want to see the hurt in his eyes. She simply sat up while he brushed himself off, adjusted his breeches, mounted his palfrey and galloped away without another word.

  She choked down the pleas she longed to utter, for him to come back, help her, help their child. She rammed her fist in her mouth as the tears streamed down. But nay, even if she dared, she had seen his face. One final glance before he has spurred his mount on was engraved in her mind now. It was the image of his sorrowful expression, his mouth a line of grim fury. He was gone, and he was not coming back. And she could never see him alone again, or else she would truly be lost.

  She gathered her skirts up high over her knees and now began to run in the opposite direction until her sides ached, back to her own home at Warwick Castle, where her family awaited her.

  The day after they returned to Cleobury, Roland entered her chamber door without knocking. Mortimer was in London and the servants were tending to their duties about the pantry, stables and grounds.

  "What do you want?" She took a cautious step back as he advanced towards her.

  He seemed to delight in her obvious disdain that was giving way to fright.

  "What do you think I want?" He leered at her breasts, his lip curling to match the brim of his feathered cap.

  "Get ye gone, you are drunk! Get out of my sight!"

  "You are mistaken. I am sober. I have not had a drop today. I find that drink impairs my ability to perform."

  She silently continued to back away as he took another menacing step. He backed her into the bed, held out his hand and gave her cheek a rough caress. "I want to sample a piece of what the royal pork sword plunged into every night. Come here, come here..."

  He was upon her, his hands sliding the bodice from her shoulders. She reached up to slap him away, and he caught her hands.

  "Get off me, you piece of filth! I shall scream!"

  "Go ahead. No one will hear you. These walls are made of stone. Now..."

  He worked his knee in between her legs, trying to separate them as he pushed her onto the bed. "If you can wag your tail for the King and my father, you can do it for me."

  In an instant he was on top of her, raising her skirts, trying to push his growing boyhood between her thighs.

  She struggled, spat at him, and bit the fleshy part of his arm through the billowing linen sleeve.

  He yelped with pain, and brought his open palm across her cheek with a loud crack that sent her head reeling. "Wanton bitch! Give me a tumble, wench. Show me what made the King's sap rise!"

  "No! Get off me!" she screamed.

  "All right, we'll go nose to tail then."

  "No! Get away from me, you miserable bastard!"

  She'd worked her leg free from under him and knew she had a great amount of mobility there. She brought it back, slamming it hard straight into his crotch. His hands went flying off her as he bellowed, staggered back and fell onto the floor, writhing in pain, his hands between his legs, choking and gagging like a hanged man.

  She leapt from the bed and tore out of the room, out the house and out to the stables, mounted the nearest mare and sped off.

  She returned at nightfall. Mortimer was already in the great hall, supping alone. His son was nowhere in sight.

  "Where were you?"

  "Out riding."

  "You do not go out riding unless you clear it with me first," he said coldly.

  She walked up to him and met the black steely gaze that penetrated her like a bloodletting needle. He held a leg of mutton in his hands, and was picking at it.

  "Your son tried to have his wicked way with me today. He made a lunge for me. I want you to get him out of here."

  "Did he accomplish anything?"

  "Nay! I kicked him where it hurt!"

  "Then what are you complaining about?" he said coldly.

  "He tried to rape me!" she exclaimed.

  "And he did not. I am not going to have to look at that wretched sod's face and speak to him over a simple canoodling! Now get ye upstairs. Your husband feels like a bit of four-legged frolic."

  "You are disgusting! I hate you!"

  She turned and fled up the stairs, locking the chamber door behind her.

  Fortunately, he did not come to her that night. She would no doubt have kicked him hard too if he had ever dared.

  The next day, she went out to the stables to saddle her mare. But when she got there, she was nowhere to be seen.

  "Kevin, where is Honey?" she asked the groom as he returned, leading another white mare by the reins.

  "Master Roland took 'er this morning, I know not where."

  "Why would he take my horse?" she cried. Honey was the only living thing from Henry she owned, and she'd grown ever so attached to her. "What has he done with her?"

  He returned an hour later, on a young brown palfrey. Honey was nowhere in sight.

  "What did you do with my mare?" she demanded as he stabled the horse.

  He paid no attention to her save to spit in her direction.

  "Where is she!" she demanded more urgently.

  "Sold 'er."

  "You sold my horse? You sod! Why?"

  "I needed a few sovereigns. My ale money was running low."

  "Where is she? I shall buy her back! I should sell you, you twisted snake. Ship you off to San Salvador and sell you into slavery!"

  He laughed a deceitful laugh, his smile twisted. "You'll never find her."

  "I shall tell your father and he will beat your cracker until you cannot sit!"

  "It was his idea, milady. We have too many bloody horses already. You shall get over it." He cracked a riding crop in her direction, causing her to jump with fright, and s
trode away, heaving another glob of spit in the path between them.

  Amethyst stared after him, powerless to do anything to help herself. The two men might hate each other, but it was nothing compared to how much they disliked women and were determined to lord it over any female who came within their clutches.

  When Mortimer announced he would be leaving for three-day trip to London, she couldn't get him out of the house fast enough. She watched from her window as his carriage trundled off down the rutted path. She made a lunge for the door with her bag as soon as it was out of sight. She would go to Warwickshire, to her beloved home, to escape this prison for at least a few days.

  She pressed her palms to the life growing inside her, swelling under her chemise, and dreamed of another chance encounter with her beloved, his arms around hers, the product of their passion growing between them. She pictured the spiraling towers of Warwick Castle, her cozy blue boudoir, the sprawling grounds...

  She tugged at the latch but it would not budge. She yanked on it, kicking at the door, pushing, pulling, but it held fast. The bastard had locked her in. She was a prisoner in her own chambers.

  An hour later a dish of food was slid in under the door. She saw now that a small hinged flap had been created especially for the purpose. She kicked the platter aside, banged on the door, shouting to be let free. The footsteps faded into the night and once again she was alone.

  The life inside her was moving. She could feel the kick of tiny legs against the wall of her abdomen. It felt like a gentle flutter at first. She knew how it felt, trapped, longing to break free when the time was right. She longed to share it all with Matthew, and threw herself down on the bed to weep bitter tears.

  Two palfreys were saddled and waiting as Mortimer rapped on her door some weeks later.

  "We are going riding," he announced, letting himself in, his stony glare registering a spark of surprise when he found her doing needlework by the window.

  "I would rather not, Mortimer. I shall be approaching my confinement in but a few weeks. Any jostling would affect the baby. I would stay here and give up the riding from now on."

  "But you rode less than a fortnight ago," he countered.

  "Aye, but it is at the point where it is too dangerous. I would stay here."

  "You are riding today," he insisted.

  "Nay, I am not." She looked up from her needlework and glared back. No longer did he intimidate her. He simply disgusted her.

  "You are riding with me." He stomped over to her, flung the needlework to the floor, and yanked her to her feet. "I am your Lord and you will do as I say. Do you want a beating?"

  She struggled to break free but he held both her hands now, and began dragging her from the chamber.

  "Please, Mortimer, it is much too dangerous! I do not want to harm the baby!"

  "Sod the bastard! I give not a toss for your Warwickshire whelp! We are going riding!"

  He led her down the stairs and she grabbed the banister for support, almost tumbling over. She dared not run away, up nor down. She could no longer boast the physical agility she had before her growing expectancy. Before, she could have jumped the banister and fled, or climbed out a window. Now she could barely walk at a quick pace.

  He dragged her down to the front door, stood beside her and boosted her up into the saddle. She thought of leading the mount away and losing herself, but that would do no good. She did not know this horse, he did not know her, and Mortimer would surely find her no matter how hard she rode. Besides, any great speed would be a risk to the child.

  So they began a light canter down the path and across the fields. Mortimer led her down a rough detour from the highway, a seldom-travelled route across a sweep of gloomy marsh.

  He spurred his mount on, and hers followed as she held the reins for dear life. The tracks were bumpy, and they crossed a ford on an ancient wooden bridge that looked like it could barely hold their weight.

  Hedges sped by on either side, and the path was overgrown with brush. Highwaymen as well as natural disasters vexed these deserted roads.

  There were other dangers as well, for she had no idea where they were and could barely see. She grew terrified as the sun disappeared behind a cover of clouds and cast a shadow over the path. She did not espy the ditch ahead of them until it was too late.

  Mortimer reared his horse and skirted it just in time, but her horse slid into the ditch, losing his footing, his legs giving way under him, and she went tumbling, tumbling, into a muddy open void.

  Her hands clutched at her stomach as she felt the ground rushing towards her to smack her in the face.

  She awoke in a strange bed. A woman wearing a white cap was propping her up on pillows. She could see the glow of a fire at the other end of the room. "Where am I?" she managed to sputter.

  "The Hare and Hounds Inn. You took a tumble off your horse."

  "My baby...is he all right?"

  "Baby? Why...I do not know. There was some blood..."

  She could now feel a warm stickiness between her legs and she screamed, her hands flying to her abdomen. The baby was there, but she did not feel that familiar thump of his legs against her. "Oh, no..."

  She heard someone speaking of a physician and saw a black-cloaked man at the foot of her bed. He forced her legs apart, grappled around, shoved his fingers inside, and covered her up. She felt wine trickling down her throat, tasted a powdery mint.

  "Did I lose the baby?" she whispered.

  No one answered.

  She was placed in a litter and dozed as a result of the swaying motion. She was led up some stairs and into a bed. The familiar scent of lilac bushes reached her. She was back at Cleobury. "Did I lose the baby?"

  A day passed into darkness, then another, then another. Martha the cook brought her all sorts of delicious pastries, breads and finally some sliced turkey meat. She drank milk, lots of milk.

  The bleeding had stopped. She prayed. Her husband did not enter the chamber once. Then finally the life inside her began to stir, and she let forth a bursting of tears, for she had not lost the precious life that she and Matthew had created.

  With the time of her confinement approaching, she retired to her chamber, the secret of the baby's paternity still within the walls of Cleobury.

  With a midwife in attendance and wrapped in wallflower juices, she brought forth a beautiful baby boy, instantly named Edward Henry. He was so tiny, not robust and strong like Topaz's sons had been. As the midwife and serving maids coddled him and fussed over him, her heart ached for Matthew, knowing how she had hurt him. Then she thought of Henry, wondering how much he'd been thinking of her.

  Finally, when she was able to walk about, she sat down and wrote Henry a letter. She poured out all her feelings of remorse for what had transpired between them, begging him to reconsider their relationship, for they had been through so much, and she told him of Harry, as she called the baby. She did not mention her husband.

  She also wrote to her mother in Warwickshire, telling her of her new grandson. As much as she longed to write to Matthew, she refrained. Respectable married ladies simply did not correspond with married men.

  Harry had Matthew's eyes, always widened in wonder and awe at the beauty and the world's sensations about him. His hair was a dusty blond that glinted like gold in the sunlight.

  Would Matthew ever be able to tell Harry was his, she wondered? Did men possess that instinctive nature always accredited to women, when it came to a first-time meeting with their sons?

  It mattered not. Her son would never have any reason to meet Matthew Gilford. His father was Mortimer Pilkington, and although Mortimer avoided the child whenever possible, and she stayed away from him after the nightmarish trick he had played in the marsh, she hoped there was one small spot in his heart that would soften when in the presence of this innocent new life.

  She was gently rocking Harry in her arms a few days later when she heard the whinny of a horse. Looking out the window, she could see a messenger saddled
on a mount, caparisoned with the royal livery—it was a message from King Henry!

  Her heart leapt as she lay Harry on the bed and bounded down the steps. She flung open the front door, ready to greet the messenger, and there stood Roland, teetering, grasping on to the door frame for support, his eyes glazed over, the message crumpled in his hand. She could see the royal seal between his fingers.

  "Hand me that message, you drunken sod! It's for me!"